


a pair of lovers

by teavious



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Hate to Love, Jealousy, Love/Hate, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Relationship Study, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: “Anything for my beloved.”Rosaline swats at his chest, eyes darting towards the other couple.“Don’t call me that in public,” she hisses, which only makes him laugh harder. She sighs, exasperated, her eyes still on his face, on the way the corner of his eyes wrinkle and his tongue licks at his lips when he’s done and satisfied. His hand moves, ever so slowly, to put back in place one unruly curl, and it lingers with his fingers barely brushing against her jaw.(A collection of small Rosvolio fics.)





	1. "If you die, I'm going to kill you."

**Author's Note:**

> I love Still Star-Crossed!! I love Rosvolio!! And I'll love you if you send me a prompt on [my tumblr @teavious!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)

They were supposed to mourn, not fight. But Verona requires blood, and if it does not come from love, it’ll come from war. Decades long hatred cannot be erased with just one happy marriage and one night spent in common drunkenness. It didn’t take the talk of servants, it didn’t take hot-blooded men, but when suffering Lady Capulet throws an insult towards Lord Montague, towards his treacherous, dead son, it’s as good as a slap to the face. Swords are drawn the second the Lady’s voice fades, her anger turning into crushing sadness. She swats her husband's arm away, and she turns on her heels and moves away before the chaos truly begins.

Rosaline, in the middle of the Montague crowd, has no such luck. She catches Livia’s eyes, and before she gets to shout her name, push her way through bodies, swords, whatever – she’s spun on her heels, and the only thing she can see is Benvolio’s leather shirt. She turns tense against him, too close too fast, but if he notices it, he doesn’t show it.

He determinedly makes his way through the crowd, at all times making sure she’s the one protected. Compared to the push and pull of that mess, the empty, narrow corridor where Benvolio stops is a haven of safety. She leans to the wall, breathing hard, her fingers still glued to his belt, to keep herself steady. She pointedly ignores his raised eyebrows, and lets go only when he shifts, unsheathing his dagger. He holds it up to her, handle first, and in the small space between their bodies, it almost touches both their chests.

“Look,” Benvolio says, eyes drifting from hers to her trembling hands. As subtle as it is, Rosaline still catches it, and she steadies her hold around the knife with a determined face and a raised eyebrow when she notices the ghost of an almost smile on his face. It’s gone in an instant, and like all the other signs of growing fondness for her, she could ignore it.

She chooses not to.

“I’m going for Livia. Do. Not. Move.”

He punctuates his demand with a warm hand on her shoulder, a most tender touch, which startles her. In the background, she can hear the sound of fighting still going on: dying gasps, victory cries, pained grunts. She wraps her free hand around his wrist, though her skin is barely brushing his cloth.

“I don’t take orders from a Montague.”

Rosaline wants it to be a snarl, but by the tilt at the corner of his mouth, she failed utterly. Her fingers still shake, but his warmth floors her. She takes a deep breath and releases him with a nod of her head.

He turns around, draws his sword. Rosaline cannot remember when he has sheathed it, but she remembers his arms around her waist, desperate to catch her and glue her to his chest, away from the commotion. She can feel her sides hurting, and she’s glaring at Benvolio’s head, for helping her, for bringing her to safety, like she cannot go out there and help her own sister.

She turns her gaze towards the dagger, his dagger. She doesn’t know how to use it, but the fact that she’s been given this means that at least now, he trusts her to save herself. It’s as good as it gets.

He’s almost ready to go around the corner of the hallway, when she shouts:

“If you die, I’m going to kill you.”

His laugh is an incredible thing, mingled with all the horror Verona creates.

“I don’t take orders from a Capulet.”

Rosaline shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and watches him break into a sprint.

I’m a Montague now, she whispers, though Benvolio is not around to hear it and she mourns the loss of such a good reply. She’s not as worried as she’d normally be: the moment the conflict started, she saw Paris’ arm curling protectively around Livia’s shoulders, at the same time she felt Benvolio’s hold herself. She starts hating this conflict even more now that she’s supposed to represent its solving, now that it should be obvious that one of the houses is dying.

Once she has been proud to be a Capulet. Now she’s sure it represents only death. Opposed to it as she’s been, marriage at least took her from it.

Hurried steps announce her of someone’s approach, and Rosaline straightens her spine, widens her legs and rights her hold on the handle of the dagger. But the face that appears only makes her break into a smile, and she opens her arms to catch Livia. Her sister squeezes her close, curses her uncle’s name, and Rosaline feels her chest almost erupting with love.

She meets Benvolio’s eyes over Livia’s head, settles for a smile now. Paris is next to him, and Livia, despite her scare, trudges to his side, speaking to him in hushed voices, worry etched into her frown.

Rosaline scoffs, hands Benvolio his dagger back.

“Thanks for saving me the trouble of killing you.”

Benvolio passes a hand through his hair, something she found out he does whenever he can’t quite know what to make out of her, and grins.

“Anything for my beloved.”

Rosaline swats at his chest, eyes darting towards the other couple.

“Don’t call me that in public,” she hisses, which only makes him laugh harder. She sighs, exasperated, her eyes still on his face, on the way the corner of his eyes wrinkle and his tongue licks at his lips when he’s done and satisfied. His hand moves, ever so slowly, to put back in place one unruly curl, and it lingers with his fingers barely brushing against her jaw.

“Thank you for your worry,” he whispers, gauging her reaction. Rosaline isn’t sure what kind of face she’s pulling, but Benvolio’s softens at it anyway.

“Thank you for your trust,” she replies, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, before stepping away. Benvolio doesn’t move, as she goes to sit next to her sister, waiting for the riot to pass or for someone to find them, but she still feels his eyes on her the whole time.


	2. expecting their first child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosaline telling Benvolio they are expecting their first child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend, for your pleasure, to listen to the songs in [this playlist](https://8tracks.com/teavious/worth-its-weight-in-gold) (it's mine, and yes, for another ship, but literally it fits for whatever couple ever, and the songs are cheesy and soft)
> 
> Someone else also created [this spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/clephar/playlist/0SLDP4BEcOHCMmL1HCKCrw) for rosvolio, which you can also check out if you're into fanmixes.

Benvolio comes back home late into the night, and by that time only one sleepy guard salutes him, only one tired servant silently points towards the kitchen, where the lord can find something his wife had ordered to be put aside. He found out early into this marriage that the shouting matches between the two Lords of their houses make him lose his appetite, and it only took Rosaline two more days to figure it out herself. And in the end, even cold meat tastes better in her company, than that of their uncles’.

There’s no Rosaline waiting for him tonight, though. It really is too late; or rather, too early, and he silently makes his way around the house. He’s fast in discharging his belt and boots in the hallway, taking off only of his shirt and pants in the bedroom, careful not to wake up his wife.

She stirs when he sits next to her, and her arms blindly grab at him, tugging him close. He sticks his cold legs against her warm ones, and Rosaline hisses, opening only one of her eyes to look at him.

“Hey,” she whispers, and she still keeps the accusatory tone, because his just as cold fingers are now under her nightdress, resting at her waist.

Benvolio hugs her closer, wrapping himself completely around her, sighing in her hair. She stirs, suddenly restless, and she searches his face. He doesn’t realize he’s been frowning until her fingers touch his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles formed there.

“Long night?” she asks, still looking at him, still not certain if she should allow him to just fall asleep, or prod him further for answers. But his voice, when he replies, is amused.

“Oh, Capulet. You know how the old men tend to be. There are not enough jokes or wine bottles to change them.”

She snorts, and Benvolio’s whole face lights up. He allows the lightest of squeezes at her waist, before he shifts to nuzzle at her neck. There’s the softest of chuckle as his beard tickles her, but it disappears when he finally settles in her embrace.

Rosaline allows him five heartbeats, and then, in a small voice he wouldn’t have caught if a little bit more tired:

“Benvolio?”

He settles on kissing her neck, stifling her squirming and ignoring her slap on his back.

“Don’t be rude,” she says, though she sounds pleased, so he repeats his action. Rosaline sighs, but tugs him by the hair anyway, enough for them to make eye contact. She’s surprisingly serious, and he can see her rolling her eyes as he dives for a kiss, even if afterwards she’s smiling.

“Out with it, beloved.”

He senses the moment when she wants to back out, her body suddenly tense against him, and he hushes her kindly, one of his hands cradling her face, flooring her.

“Come on,” he prompts, the lightest of tilts at one corner of his mouth. Rosaline shifts, overwhelmed by his attention, and puts a few centimetres between them.

“I’m pregnant.”

Benvolio’s eyes dart warily towards his wife, the way she’s purposely refusing to look at him, the way she’s biting her lower lip. It takes him a few seconds to realize what she said, that what she said is true and it directly has an impact on him.

“Really?” He almost shouts, and Rosaline startles next to him and throws him a nasty glare.

 He has risen halfway on the bed, hands trembling in the sheets. When her nod comes, along with a fugitive glance his way, Benvolio feels like he waited an eternity for this admission. He whistles, the sound loud, joyous and echoing in the silence of the night, and he’s gathering her in his arms, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her mouth.

“You brute,” she laughs under his attention, pleased and overwhelmed, for all the right reasons.

“Oh, sweet, sweet Rosaline. Let our kids be the happiest Verona ever had!”

She still laughs when she asks, one hand petting his hair. “ _Kids_?”

“What? Can’t I be selfish enough to desire this happiness more than once?”

She snorts again, rolling her eyes at both his exaggerated line and the happy puppy face he’s pulling. She won’t admit it now, but before this, she thought she reached the peaked of joy that one can have. And in something she never even wanted in the first place! Livia will laugh in the morning, the city will feel the need to congratulate her, and her separation from the Capulets will be completed. But for now, it’s late into the night.

“Go to sleep, my Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romanian has this very great word for "whistling out of joy/happiness". Basically, that's what Benvolio's doing. 
> 
> Catch me up for a chat or prompt request on [tumblr!!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


	3. "I wish I could hate you."

Rosaline feels hot under the blanket, and she can’t quite fall asleep. Benvolio, on the floor, has not worded a single complaint, and although it’s now been way past half an hour, he has not moved from his initial position. Only his boots are by the door, his sword leaning on the bed frame. She has not seen him give up his daggers, and she imagines that leather shirt of him uncomfortable and hard, combined with the wooden floor.

It was easier to remain angry at him when she actually saw him, heard him and had to tolerate him. Now, tired but still unable to sleep, uncomfortable still, despite the large bed, Rosaline finds it hard to remember why she’s been upset in the first place. She rises on the bed, looks around to get used with the darkness of the room, before she attempts finding the slump on the floor that represents her road companion.

She’s barefoot, barely making any noise as she approaches him. She stops a small distance away, unsure on how to continue. She can’t quite believe she got out of bed for this in the first place. She clears her throat, though Benvolio doesn’t even stir. Annoyed, the cold seeping in through the floor, Rosaline nudges him with the sole of her feet, somewhere around a shoulder or a hip. She’s not quite sure.

This only gets her the smallest of reaction: incomprehensive mumbles. And just as she thought he’s going to get up, he turns and pushes his face even further in the pillow, not at all disturbed by her presence or his sleeping conditions. Rosaline can make out the outline of his body now, the horrendously looking curl of his spine, his curled toes.

_“I wish I could hate you,”_ she whispers faintly, just before straightening herself and with a firmer, much louder tone calling him by his house.

“Montague!”

He turns, confused and frowning, looking up at her. It takes him a while to figure out the situation, figure out how his voice is supposed to work.

“If the inn isn’t burning, I don’t care.”

He’s ready to turn his back to her again, and Rosaline snaps, panicked that he might be even harder to rouse the second time.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

He squints his eyes at her, like he can’t quite figure out how come he’s the ridiculous one given the situation. Rosaline scoffs, crossing her arms, staring at him for a whole minute before sighing and giving up.

“Come sleep in the bed.”

It’s his turn to cross his arms, which makes him look even more awkwardly on the floor. He shakes his head, once, stubbornly remaining silent, shifting just the slightest to look up at her more comfortably. She leans forward, slowly, like she’d approach an animal she’s afraid will run away from her, and gently tugs at his elbow.

“It’s big enough.” She can’t quite believe how soft her own voice is, but she’s too tired to actually care or turn it to the usual sharper edge it takes when around him.

Benvolio weighs her words for a bit, and in the end, what seems to convince him is the fact that if he complies, she’ll let go of him. She sighs, somewhat relieved. Throughout the whole following fumbling through the dark, Benvolio doesn’t get close enough to touch her, set on not disrupting their so-fragile relationship, not giving her reasons to distrust him.

He lies on one side of the bed, as close to the edge to be still called being on it, facing the wall. Rosaline stares at his back and the distance he put between them, and she shifts again, searching a position her back would be content with.

“So you don’t hate me?” he asks, back turned to her, a glimmer of hope in his voice that makes Rosaline stop uncomfortably, stare back at his form. Then, because he’s been playing dead as she tried being nice, she snaps.

“Keep the smugness from your voice, _Montague._ ”

There’s a tilt in her voice that accentuates his name in a way she never did before – or actually, she did, but definitely not with the word _Montague ._ It reminds him of their first meeting, and how even if she keeps the same wittiness, it’s nicer to see it attack anyone else but him.

At her words, Benvolio laughs anyway, despite how biting she might have wished the line to turn, the bed swaying with the rhythm of his breaths. She has two thirds of the blanket wrapped around her waist, a corner nervously fisted in her hands; and yet, he does not complain. Only the joyous talk in the hall downstairs, as drinks are shared later and later into the night, interrupts the comfortable silence that fell between them.

“Capulet?” Benvolio breathes, shifting his whole body to properly face her, his weight pressing the mattress, making her own side lean dangerously close to his. Rosaline doesn’t avoid his eyes; even if his wondering gaze prompts her to give answers to a question she doesn’t want to ask herself.

“Mhm?” She feels her throat suddenly too dry. She wishes he wouldn’t look so attentively, picking all her reactions, forcing her to show him none that would actually satisfy him. If only to punish him.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, as he wrestles for a larger side of the blanket, even if it still stays stubbornly in her fierce grasp. It gives her an excuse to interrupt the eye contact, to stop thinking about the shrinking distance between them with each tug and pull, and she gives in when his hand almost touches hers – with a sigh of disappointment.

He wraps his side around his shoulders, like it’s a hug he needs but it’s been to long since he received. Rosaline tries not to notice the loneliness accompanying him, but it’s obvious each times he turns back, smiling faintly expecting to see his cousin and his friends, only to meet _her_. The reason why all of this has started in the first place.

Benvolio sighs, closing his eyes.

“I never said I hate you either, Capulet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that sneak peak we had a few days ago. It's like 1:37 am so I'm sorry for any mistakes that might have seeped through.
> 
> I'm just a student trying to get through my exams by (also) writing fanfictions for Rosvolio, which I love!! And I'll love you if you send me a prompt on [my tumblr @teavious!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


	4. jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably not what the prompt sender expected, but it's not like I'm particularly famous for following into the expectations of prompts. Sorry & I hope you still enjoy!

Escalus takes another swig of his drink, though he lost count of the number of times his cup got filled. This late into the evening, even his sister left his side, mingling with other members of the court; discussing, heads bended close and pearly smiles flashing, with ambassadors that bring more smiles onto her face than he did since he became prince.

His eyes, though, more often than not, are trained on where Rosaline sits. Her posture changed as the night went on, her back relaxing into Benvolio’s arm, her cautious stance exchanged for one of just mild, confident hostility. At the beginning, lots of curious lords and ladies have crowded their table, have checked the betrotheds’ smiles for falseness, have picked at each of their gestures.

But Escalus does not, cannot, understand where this charade starts or where it ends, if there is one to talk about in the first place. It’s easy to ignore the reality of a marriage when he fights off the wrath of the whole Europe, but with the candles slowly melting down, the minstrels playing in the background and no bigger, stronger Isabella at his side to remind him of the fair Verona, he can think of nothing else but fair Rosaline.

She didn’t smile when she saw ~~her~~ the prince. She simply curtsied, perfect stance and back so straight it would have snapped at the weight of his voice probably, but he found it impossible to speak. Isabella had to carry the usual change of polite lines, and when she left, Rosaline’s gaze on his sister had been warm. She didn’t look at him. Not when he spoke to the mass of people in front of him, her eyes instead strangely focused on the place where her hand was resting at Benvolio’s arm, his thumb trailing circles over her skin, his jaw determinedly set as to not allow a smile to erupt.

He had noticed Rosaline’s light swat at Benvolio’s shoulder, the moment his speech was done, though there was no real force behind it and Benvolio’s reaction was a hearty laugh and a shift in his stance that brought him closer to her.

That’s when Escalus took his first glass of wine, and nodded along at some lord’s discourse.

He had allowed his eyes to always dart towards the couple, towards their linked hands as they danced, the almost connected foreheads, and the touches that lingered up to the point when one of them actually realized they don’t even need to let go. Benvolio passed his assortment of cheese on her plate, only Livia’s slight smile the sign that anyone else but him saw it. Rosaline cleaned up grapes for Benvolio, presenting each grain on his plate, before pointedly avoiding his ever growing smirk.

It was his third cup when the two lovers’ shoulders touched, and they remained like that, leaning onto each other. That was when Livia finally could breathe too, her attention turned towards members of their old social circle. That was when the audience nodded to each other, pleased and content that it was _real._

For Escalus, things were not that easy. He had once read every emotion on Rosaline’s face and had known them all. This cannot be real, because it’s too familiar to his own heart and – just no.

It takes him a few more drinks to actually make up his mind, and Rosaline’s laugh to actually push him up from his seat and approach them.

They rise at the same time, a shared glance between them two that annoys him and perfectly polite nods. He thinks Benvolio’s is not low enough, but he lets it pass this time. He turns towards Rosaline, finally free again to look at her, search her face in earnest, and not from a place too far-away that he didn’t even want in the first place.

“Would you please accompany me, Lady Rosaline?”

There’s that furtive glance again, and something in Escalus’ chest erupt when Rosaline almost looks defiantly at the so-obvious need on Benvolio’s face to keep her close. She passes him by, ignoring both Benvolio’s sighs and Escalus’ small gasp as she stomps towards empty hallways, still visible, if Benvolio is willing enough to turn around in his chair.

He is, and Escalus cannot remember anything that he wanted to say.

“Do you take pleasure in torturing me?”

He blurts it out, rather than properly say it, and Rosaline turns all defensive, arms crossed and a tilt of her chin that makes him feel smaller than he is.

“I wasn’t aware me or my affairs hold that kind of power over you, my Lord.”

“Your affairs are Verona’s,” he fumbles over the words, but the name of his city grounds him, gives him a resemblance of the man he is supposed to be. It’s not the right thing to say, though.

“And what do you know of Verona, my Lord? What do you know of _me_?”

_That you used to smile like that for me._

Rosaline huffs, pacing around him. Several feet away, biting from an apple, Benvolio frowns, probably imagining several deadly wounds he can inflict on him. Escalus sighs.

“Is he kind, at least?”

Here she stops, and her face twists, hurt and hateful at the same time. Escalus wants to touch her, apologize, but he feels like everything has been a huge mistake the moment her face breaks into a smile, small but _honest._

“Yes.”

And with that, she turns on her heels and leaves, like he is nothing but a ghost, but a person she has to avoid. Benvolio gets up to meet her halfway, an arm tenderly placed around her waist, hushed words exchanged between the two, and Rosaline’s fingers move to arrange the collar of Benvolio’s shirt. His face turns, his lips finding her hand, placing a kiss on her open palm, and she smiles and smiles and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you so, so much for your feedback!! It means so, so much and I am so grateful for all those of you who took a minute out of your time to read my fics & leave comments, send me prompts and, you know, generally interact with me in the context of this fandom. I stand by my initial opinion: Still Star Crossed fans are ones of the most welcoming I got the honour to write for.  
> Secondly, from now on updates should come more often! I'm officially done with my exams! Thanks for your patience, as well!  
> Catch me up for a chat or prompt request on [tumblr!!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


	5. "it's montague now"

There’s something in the mass of ignorant noblemen that makes Rosaline’s patience run thin; this is not the place or time when important decisions happen. _The world’s a stage_ , for sure, but as time passes, she finds herself to be a very poor actress. As time passes, there’s not much need for acting to begin with.

And yet, as another lord approaches the bench where she and Livia sit, sharing whispered secrets and warm news, Rosaline can barely hide the discontent from her face. She sets for an eye roll, as the man bows in front of them. Livia’s finger pokes her back, forcing her to straighten her posture and show the slightest of interest in him. She frowns at her sister, _surely she must understand why she’d prefer the company of Livia, who she’s now seeing maybe twice a year, over (almost) anyone else’s._

But, as the lady she’s been raised to do, Rosaline just coughs, crosses her ankles and gallantly places her hands in her lap, waiting for all to be over. Next to her, Livia is all smiles.

“As always, the beauty of Capulet ladies lives up to the rumours.”

Rosaline, at the exact moment Livia presents her thanks for the compliment, says, quite loudly:

“It’s Montague now.”

The man, taken aback to have been spoken to outside of the usual courtly manners, opens his mouth to reply, finds he has nothing to say, closes it again. Rosaline takes a sip from her glass, trying to hide her growing grin, while Livia sighs.

“Of course, I – didn’t mean- Excuse me.”

He’s barely out of the hearing range, when Livia starts laughing, while managing to look upset and chiding at the same time. Rosaline, rather, gloats in the small success of getting rid of the man, not lying through her teeth in the process and also making her sister laugh.

“I’ve never expected you to defend so the rival house of your childhood, sister,” Livia says in the end, though a knowing smile plays at her lips.

Rosaline rolls her eyes, and she does not deem her sister’s teasing with an immediate reply. She knows, though, that it’s probably too obvious that it’s not the house or the name that she cares about, but just one Montague in particular. After all, she’s made a snide remark at Benvolio’s uncle first thing in the evening, beaming as he couldn’t reply in any other way but honouring her as the female heir of his house.

“It comes with… certain benefits,” she says in the end, and it’s a mix of all the alcohol she drank and Livia’s presence that relaxes her to the point where she doesn’t notice Benvolio, coming up behind her. She startles when he wraps a hand around her waist, bumping his hips against her, forcing her to move a little more to the left to allow him the space to sit.

“Husband,” she says, in a tone that hides her pleasure at the way he leaned over to kiss her cheek as a greeting.

“Wife!” he says, enthusiasm in his voice, a wink thrown in Livia’s direction, making her part of a secret Rosaline doesn’t want to hear about. “Did I just hear you complying with your situation, for once? No complaints?”

“You’re too close,” Rosaline complains, pushing at his shoulder, set on not letting him win. Somewhere next to her, Livia giggles, rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics.

“And all because someone still called us Capulet girls,” Livia says, wordy nudge for Benvolio, like Rosaline cannot tell and won’t turn a dagger stare on her.

“Well,” Rosaline starts, trying to keep a semblance of dignity even if both of them turned against her in the discussion and she misses Paris to help her in a counter attack, “you _are_ a lady in _another_ kingdom. He has no excuse for the slip of tongue.”

But of course, it was no slip of tongue to begin it, but a poor attempt at rekindling the memory Juliet, rose of the city; at flattering them by such ‘subtle’ comparison.

Benvolio’s hand moves to trace soothing circles on her back, and she leans a little closer to him, presses her thigh closer to his.

“Livia, would you mind allowing me a few minutes with Rosaline?”

She nods, a softer smile this time, and she brushes a few curls out of her sister’s face before leaving to search for her own husband. With a relieved sigh, Rosaline allows her whole weight resting on Benvolio, her mouth blindly searching for his, kissing his chin instead. He laughs in her hair, the sound reverberating as he wraps his arms around her.

“Beloved, are you drunk?”

Rosaline buries her face more firmly at his chest, refusing to straight out answer his question because, quite honestly, she doesn’t trust herself not to stutter. Benvolio resumes his tracing on her back, now finding the exact square near the back of her neck where no material covers her skin.

“It’s frustrating,” she says, her fingers twisting in his shirt, “how they wanted this – this union so badly and now that they have it, they’d do anything to remind us of the differences.”

Benvolio unwraps himself from around her, and Rosaline frowns at the space he puts between them, hand already darting to catch his wrist, to keep him sitting. He turns it upwards, his fingers following the lines in her palm, forcing a bubbly laugh out of her.

“ _We_ have it,” he says, after a few long seconds of simply staring at her, much more sober than she expected him to be. His touch becomes more insistent, their fingers now wrapped together, a slight pull that makes her chest bump into his. “This union… It’s ours.”

Rosaline lunges forward; kisses the mouth that can pour out such lovely and heart-aching truths. When they part, Benvolio smirks at her.

“No disagreeing this time?” he asks, putting on a quite convincing innocent face.

“Count your blessings, Montague,” she says, moving for another kiss, more urgent.

“Indeed I shall, my Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me, send me prompts or gush about rosvolio in general on [tumblr!!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


	6. "you lied to me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, alternatively, 5 times Benvolio lied to/about Rosaline.

**1.**

  
The first lie he tells her is one that's as easy on his lips as the smile that accompanies it. He's said it so many times before, in front of so many different people, but with a Capulet, the words just feel strained and foreign. Her raised eyebrow and defiant glare prove it, and all he can do in reply is smile until the condescending tone used with his greeting fades in the corners of his lips, the small dimples of his cheeks.  
Rosaline is no fool.   
There's nothing nice in the conditions that brought them again together, and there's no gladness in Benvolio at the sight of her. At least she's obvious enough not to need a lie, but her refusal to comply, when he really has no choice or hope at all, is angering.  
How dare she stand straight and tall, certain in her needs and rights, when Verona burns all around her?  
Benvolio cannot look away.

 

**2.**

 

Rosaline enters the ballroom accompanied by Livia and Count Paris. Lord Capulet is several steps behind, looking small and defeated and for all that it matters, exactly how his own uncle would have wanted him.  
Lord Montague is at his shoulder, whispering of victorious tactics and the next plan, and Benvolio starts feeling sick the exact moment Rosaline smiles in his direction; small and reluctant, but a smile nonetheless.   
"Watch her, nephew, for she's the last Capulet; of a dying house who'll crush the moment she's yours to take."  
Benvolio scoffs, his gaze following her silhouette as she navigates politics and men alike. In the presence of the Prince, the lines around her mouth harden.  
"She's not anyone's to give or take, uncle."  
Then he leaves, even if it's obvious Lord Montague has not finished speaking; at the moment, he doesn't quite care.   
"Beloved," he says with a small nod of his head, once reaching Rosaline. "You look quite tired."  
He doesn't mean it; she's looking all what's expected of a Lady at a party: beautiful.  
Rosaline takes a sip of her drink, raising an eyebrow at her betrothed. "And you, Montague, are quite the charmer."  
Her tone is dry, but she's fighting a smile.

 

**3.**

  
"So how did you fall in love?" A lady sighs in front of them, on their wedding day; the audacity of it all.  
Rosaline swallows a laugh that Benvolio masks with a cough, and under the table, her leg kicks his. They have a staring contest that lasts a few seconds.  
"Husband?" Rosaline prods, looking particularly smug.  
Benvolio sighs, throwing his hands in the air teathrically, leaning closer to the inquiring lady: "It was when we committed murder together."  
His wife kicks him again under the table, and this time it comes unexpected and it makes him spasm in his chair. Some people stare, some other whisper, and it's all the more clear for the wedded pair that this evening is for everyone but them. Their glasses get refilled, they both rise their cups to their lips at the same time, and prepare themselves to go forward.   
Still not quite fallen in love.

 

**4.**

  
"You lied to me," Rosaline accuses, storming into his office at the exact moment he was about to study the documents from his uncle. A welcomed distraction.  
"What about, beloved?"   
"So you lie so often that you cannot even remember?"  
She has crossed her arms, huffing in anger and exhaustion, and she looks particularly pretty with the morning sunlight seeping through the windows. Benvolio shifts in his chair.  
"I know that I say lots of things that can be considered either truth or lie by various people; and I know words are easily warped." Here he sighs, seeing how Rosaline is still a bit angry, still on the offensive. "What is this about?"  
"You said the Capulet cathedral will be ready for Livia's wedding-"  
"Which is not in a month's time."  
"And you know how important this is-"  
"I do. And it will be done."  
"You said you'll take me to see it today."  
A pause.   
"Rosaline, we decided we are not to disturb the workers and go there in the evening."  
" _You_ decided it."  
"And _you_ agreed, my Lady."  
Another pause, as she glares at him.  
"Very well. I will take it that you do not require my presence throughout the rest of today, then."  
Benvolio glances for a fracture of a second towards the papers strewn across his desk, then at his wife, sitting in the doorframe, expecting an answer.   
"I do, actually. Heard the new Venice ambassador is particularly fond of pregnant, bright ladies."  
Rosaline laughs then, accepting the arm he presents her, and he tries not to look too pleased.

 

**5.**

  
He finds it hard to lie to her, no matter the context. A year into their marriage, they both pour their minds over Verona's problems, running around each to solve something, Montague and Capulet symbol still, making the city run smoothly. Montague's chest is getting emptied of coins and Capulet's men are tired out almost each day, but a new ball comes around, new alliances get forged, and all starts again.  
They took to celebrating by sharing drinks in the library, child hushed and put to sleep, political talks forgotten into a haze of alcohol and each other. They've not quite known each other when they first started doing this, but with each night a secret was spilled, another piece revealed about the other. Benvolio likes to believe Rosaline enjoys this time spent together as much as he does.  
"Did you hate me, back when it all started?" she asks once, late into the night, by the time they're already cuddled both onto one armchair, her words muffled in his shirt.  
Benvolio thinks of that time, before he knew this woman in his arms and the similarities between them.  
"No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to say updates still won't be as often and as good as I would hope for; I'm still busy studying and doing real life stuff during the following week and I'm not sure how much I'll have time for writing. Thanks for understanding!  
> Come talk to me, send me prompts or gush about rosvolio in general on [tumblr!!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


	7. no one needs to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slight au + slight mentions of abuse

Rosaline tries to have a civil conversation with the friar, showing the grief she felt she needed to uphold in front of her aunt, her eyes still trained on the man in front of her. The tears aren’t as acted as she would have wanted them to be, and she remembers of how young her cousin was, and how desperate they both felt when men were so closely tied to their fate. 

She hides bruises under long sleeves, and she tries to keep her moves controlled, small. If asked, she’s not sure she can say what she did to deserve such hatred from her lady, but she’s a servant and she should need her mouth shut.

But here’s the culprit for whose crimes she needs to bear hysteric women and pitiful glances for; and she’s not feeling particularly noble or gallant. With each steps she takes closer to the older man, he takes one back.

“Who else knew of their union?” She chokes on the last word; terrified and disgusted and sad. It makes her pull her shoulders back, straighten her spine.

“My lady?” he says, though his hands tremble and his eyes are frantic for a way out; he’s probably refusing to just push her outright, since she’s no outright threat either. 

“I am no lady, father. I am no fool either.”

She looks him up and down, her face scrunching up. She can almost smell how desperate she is to know on who she can put some blame, finally; after so many years with nothing but speculations as the companions to her justice. The friar is even more so to keep his secret as close and hidden as he can.

The door to his private rooms slams to the wall, and Rosaline breaks away from the man she was interrogating in a much too obvious way. None other but Benvolio Montague makes his way in, disheveled and so determined until his eyes fall on the Capulet; then it’s all gone and lost. The question he blurts out is very much similar to the one she was trying to find the answer for, and although she hates that it is needed, the presence of someone bigger, stronger and more skilled with the sword than her is a good addition to the situation.

“I need to know the answer to that too, Montague. It was my cousin who died for yours.” She says, before he can start asking questions or shooing her away. She’s still a servant, but still a woman; and some news with wrong inclinations would destroy both her and the friar’s career. 

Benvolio’s eyes turn towards the door for a few seconds, like he expects some other figures to follow him in. “And mine that died for yours. I just want to know who was desperate enough to want an union between the two houses with the bloodiest shared history.”

Rosaline nods, even stepping closer to him, forming a semi-circle around the friar. In the daylight, with no commotion brewing around them, with no grief as heavy as black robes in the summer heat, she can study her enemy clearer. Benvolio’s young, too young to have taken part in the fights years ago, and yet she can see only his sword driving through her father, only the tenseness of his jaw as the one that prompted the final blow. 

She has never heard him laugh, and is afraid to see how it sounds; if it would be too akin to victory.

“Why, my Lord, you share the name,” the friar says, and Rosaline snaps back to reality, head turning to him, judging and seething, chest heaving with barely restrained anger. But Benvolio Montague sways on his feet, struggles to grab at the big table in the room, and he knows, if the drainage of colour on his face is any tell, exactly whom the friar is speaking about. 

She raises an arm before she thinks about it; hastily getting closer towards him to steady him and his half-fall. He winces at her approach, one of his arms flying up in an attempt to… cover his face.

Rosaline catches his gaze: scared and unfocused, and only then does she notice the bruising at Benvolio’s jaw, the way he leans more on one side of his body when he steps, as if it hurts.

It probably does, she realizes, and her skin burns underneath her long sleeves. Whatever justice she might need, there’s no man in Verona who can possible give it to her. 

The friar takes a step towards the door, but it breaks the spell of fear on Benvolio, and his sword stops any advance. 

“My uncle might have wanted the two houses together, but not the chaos ruling over the streets now. So… who did?”

“If I knew, Benvolio Montague, I wouldn’t be here still.”

Rosaline takes in the empty shelves in his room, the made bed. It looks like the friar found out, after all. There are loud steps outside, the guards making sure any commotion is paid in blood, rather than understanding, and she grabs at Benvolio’s wrist without thinking, forcing him to lower his weapon, and drags him after her on the church’s hallways. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Capulet?”

He plants his feet on the ground, effectively stopping the both of them.

“Saving your life, that’s what! You could stand to be more grateful, Montague.”

She spits his name, like it’s poison coiled around her tongue. He never felt it more repulsive than it this moment, with a Capulet once-lady. He laughs, bitterly.

“Oh, how the roles reversed. What were you doing there, Capulet?”

“Rosaline,” she snaps, because there’s nothing that can possibly make her proud of her name anymore; not with a crazy lady and a rapidly losing lord. “I want to know who set Verona on fire.”

“You’ll burn yourself,” he says, dusting off his pants, scrubbing at the bruise on his cheek. 

Rosaline laughs. “I’m not afraid of a city.”

Isabella, after all, is working right now at creating a protective net for all those like her: too weak, too insignificant to matter in the grand political schemes. She cannot remember the last time Escalus smiled at her, and she clutches every memory close to her heart, stifles the want to have everything back. She could help, but even being out right now is an act of defiance that will go punished once she’s back in a mourning household. 

Similarly, Benvolio is hesitating in the alley, following her determined steps, though neither know exactly where they are going. 

“What will be left of our houses?” Rosaline asks, stopping to face an insufferable and suffering man. 

“It could not matter,” Benvolio says, pushing coins in her hands, his fingers warmly pressed over hers. Rosaline almost trips at the sudden contact, almost recoils before seeing his open face, feeling his trembling arms.

“You could just leave,” he says again, defeated, and only then does she actually accept the help. 

“I’m not going alone, not when… you have only him to go back to.”

Benvolio laughs, sourly. “It’s not on you to decide.”

She nods; after all, he’s right. “But no one needs to know.”

He laughs again. “I’d be dead before finishing that sentence.”

“The world doesn’t end with Verona, Benvolio,” she tries again, though softer, kinder. She still can’t quite shake the wrongness of what they’re doing: trading with the enemy, but it’s easier to ignore it if she simply uses his first name, if he’s just a simple man. 

“But it should when you lose everyone.’

Rosaline raises her head. "Then what am I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your patience and sorry it's been so long since i last posted! life is though and i am not, basically.   
> i've also read all your comments and i am so, so very grateful for all of them! sorry i didn't get to them yet.   
> hope you enjoyed this one as well!


	8. "what happened doesn't change anything"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rewrite of a scene from episode 7.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FINISHED WATCHING THIS TV SHOW and we've all been betrayed.

 The words taste like poison when she says them, coiling around her tongue and making tears spring in her eyes. She wonders why Escalus, who is supposed to know her like no one else, Escalus who's promised her peace and well-being, cannot see the pain, the torment. The pure torture that lying has become to her after she's been next to an honest man for so long.

It does not matter. Paris puts the blame for her tears on relief, her shaking shoulders are of utmost happiness at the sight of her just sovereign, and no one thinks twice of the looks she throws towards Benvolio Montague, half repentance, and half punishment. She cannot face it: she searches the chains, the dusted clothes, the cut skin, but she's not ready to look him in the eyes, to actually see the shift she feels deep in her chest, as she tries to breathe and not sob out.

_He lives in chains_ , is what she tries to remind herself as she forces food down her throat, as she pleads for a life she doesn't know when she stopped hating. She faces refusal whatever she says; the truth is no better than any other lie she ever  because however much she might matter, _it is not enough_. Not for Escalus, not for Verona, not for the Capulet House.

Saints might as well cry tears of blood if the way in which bodies fall all around her is a way to judge. It's not the law failing her, it's not her House betraying her over and over again, it's not the death that looms over each of her steps. It's her failing Benvolio, it's her betraying the trust he put into her, it's Benvolio's death that waits for the morning. Stepping in the small hallways, facing his cell feels like her own sentence.

It's the first time in days when she dares look at him, and whatever knowledge he learned with the approach of his death, it is too much; his shoulders remain hunched, his eyes red, his mouth set in a distrustful, broken snare.

"Capulet!"

She's trembling again, in simple agony and fear, the name so familiar in his mouth, so glued to her skin, so... loved, because it leaves his lips. She wonders if he can see it, what so many others ignored simply because they refuse to shake up their world with the truth. Simply because the truth hurts. She's already in pain only to the idea of sharing her news with him, and yet, he trusts her and she will do him right.

"I failed you."

The knowledge that in a few hours he'll be dead is clear in the tears forming in her eyes, and for a few seconds, they're silent, the future hanging heavy above their heads, cutting all their hopes. And then, _because_ the future is hanging above their heads, cutting all their hopes, Benvolio chooses to tell her everything. Lay bare his heart, convince her with what he knows that she deserves the life that so many others want for her. That he'd want for her, if things would have gone differently.

He wonders if she can say he's lying. Or if Rosaline, somewhat, has given him her everything, as he did to her.

"What happened doesn't change anything," he takes one shuddering breath, Rosaline holding her own.

They can feel the shift; words cannot keep it from pouring, their closeness too much and too little at the same time. She thought it had been obvious from the moment she left her home in the dead of the night to follow him, he thought that maybe there's power behind the belief of a whole city. But the truth remains the same:

"I trust **you** ," she says, and everything changes.

He's left with love in his chest and death on his name. She's left with want for revenge and broken hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to come back with more fanfiction!!!! it's summer break and i've been away, then recharging, and i've only managed to actually catch up with still star-crossed today. so here, suffer with me.  
> Catch me up for a chat or prompt request on [tumblr!!](http://teavious.tumblr.com/)


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